


My words can come out as a pistol

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Pining, Public Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:30:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I understand,” Harold says, clever fingers and brilliant mind and playing fucking chess with the entire world, and she didn’t ask for this, she didn’t ask for somebody to <i>understand</i> her when half of the time she doesn’t even understand herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My words can come out as a pistol

**Author's Note:**

> Hahaha, well, that took forever to write. 
> 
> Thanks to my VIP beta squad ; D  
> Nightwolf for hilarious Skype feedback, teaanddenial for figuring out when I've written myself into a corner, and of course Sky for ALL THE SQUEEING. ALL OF IT. 
> 
> Title from “Beggin’ For Thread” by Banks.

**PART I: SAMEEN**

 

“I’m gonna go home,” Sameen says, and Harold gives her that _look_.

“Mr. Reese and I were planning to get takeout later, if you would like to--“

“Yeah, thanks, but no thanks,” Sameen says.

Reese is spread out on the couch, long limbs dangling over the armrest, flipping through a book. Shaw can’t see the cover, but it’s _How To Be Completely Owned By Your Mysterious Rich Boss 101,_ probably, with the way he’s parading around in his fancy bespoke suits all the time.

She leans down to pat Bear’s head and slip him a treat, a thick slice of actual freeze dried beef, not the hypoallergenic diet stuff Harold always buys.

They’re done, aren’t they? The number they had been trailing, Janice Kaplan, has been saved from the drug cartel she accidentally got mixed up with, and when she thanked them, she had hugged Reese - who made a sound like a particularly pleased cat - and after a moment of hesitation just waved at Sameen. Smart girl.

“See you tomorrow, then,” Sameen says, grabbing her jacket and heading for the door.

Reese gives her a wave over the edge of his book without looking up.

When she looks back, she can see the firm unhappy line of Harold’s mouth.

 

\--

 

It’s only been two hours and Reese is already driving her insane.

_“There’s another entrance behind the bar,”_ his voice says in her earpiece, and Sameen reaches over to take Harold’s glass and drain it.

She pulls a face.

“I’ve seen it, it’s covered,” Sameen says between clenched teeth before turning to Harold.

“Is that Ginger Ale in a Whisky tumbler?”

Harold gives an unimpressed shrug.

“We’re on a stakeout,” he says.

Sameen rolls her eyes.

“ _I_ am on a stakeout. You just brought the fake identity that got me in here.”

“Mr. Egret frequents a lot of questionable establishments,” Harold says, surveying the inside of the club.

“So far, I haven’t quite figured out where this falls on the list. A meeting point for drug exchanges maybe, illegal poker in the back? Mr. Reese?”, he asks, instinctively flicking a glance at one of the security cameras. “Maybe you could look into that?”

_“Pleasure, Harold,”_ John drawls, and Sameen rolls her eyes.

Even Bear is less desperate for attention.

“I assure you, I don’t particularly enjoy being out in the field,” Harold says, seamlessly sliding back into their earlier conversation. He’s frowning at something sticky on the surface of the bar.

“ _Bullshit_ ,” Sameen says.

“Language, Miss Shaw,” Harold says prissily as always, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

“You _love_ it, breaking and entering, the fake IT guy thing, motorcycle chases, the whole nine yards,” Sameen says, swiping one of the full shot glasses from behind the counter and draining it.

Vodka, not too bad.

Harold’s eyebrows nearly climb up to his hairline.

“Have you been talking to Mr. Reese?” Harold asks.

“Stakeouts are really boring, and while your brooding vigilante hitman doesn’t even offer personal information under the threat of violence - trust me, I tried -, he does talk about you an awful lot.”

“ He _does_?” Harold asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

There’s a noise in Sameen’s in-ear that sounds like _“Hnngh.”_

“Did you say something, Reese?” Sameen asks sweetly.

_“Just that you should maybe talk less and concentrate on your surroundings more,”_ Reese says in her ear, and oh, he sounds _pissed a_ lready.

This is going to be good.

The club is one large lounge area with dark red curtains hanging from the ceiling to separate it into little nooks with couches and deep leather chairs, and a fully stocked bar on the other side of the room.

They are keeping an eye on an investment banker whose latest business decisions are about to get him in over his head, and because Sameen has shitty luck, Reese broke his leg falling off a damn motorcycle when he was chasing their last number.

Now he sits at the library, doing basic research and mostly being a nuisance.

Alan Daniels, their current number, is busy chatting up a blonde in a slinky dress, and it doesn’t look like he will move anytime soon. Sameen can see no threat so far, even though there is a concerning number of security personnel hovering around the exits.

Harold is busy doing something on his phone, probably running one of his elaborate cover identities.

He reminds her of Cole, never able to relax, always _go go go_ and calculating three separate outcomes at once.

_“I still don’t think it was a good idea to bring Harold out into the field,”_ Reese says petulantly, because he is a _child_.

“You’ve only said that three times so far, good thing you’re reminding us. We’re still green, though,” Sameen says.

Harold gives her one of his private little smiles and pockets his phone.

“What did you mean by that, Miss Shaw?” He asks.

“It was a code I had with Cole for how a mission went. Traffic light colors: Green is _All_ _fine_ , Yellow is _Stuff is going down, but nothing critical_ and Red is _We’re fucked.”_

Harold nods at that.

“I’m sorry about Mr. Cole,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

She turns her empty shot glass around on the table, watching the light reflecting off the glass.

Sameen misses it, sometimes, the way they worked together, but there is something to Harold’s calm voice in her ear, the way he effortlessly juggles five different tasks and gives her what she needs before she even had a chance to say it out loud.

Daniels has started to get cozy with Miss Slinky Dress on one of the couches, his hand rather obviously moving between her legs. Sameen takes a look around.

The lounge area is populated by couples, all at different stages of making out.

“Reese, what kind of club is this?” Sameen asks.

She can hear the sound of typing, much slower than Harold’s rapid-fire keystrokes.

A moment passes.

Then: _“Oh.”_

One of the security guys at the door is looking over at Harold and Sameen, saying something to his buddy.

“I think we’re drawing unwanted attention,” Sameen says.

“What do you mean?” Harold asks, oblivious, except she has no time for explanations and takes his hand instead to draw him in the direction of one of the plush couches in direct view of Daniels’ nook.

“Miss Shaw?” Harold asks and gives her an astonished look when she pushes at his shoulders to get him to sit down and then climbs into his lap.

“Look, Harold,” Sameen says, low in his ear, “the way I see it, we either do as the Romans do before the heavily armed security guards figure out that you’re not Mr. Egret and I am not your girlfriend, or you stay behind me while I shoot our way out of here.”

“I would prefer if the shooting would be kept to a minimum,” Harold says instantly beneath her, seemingly unbothered by the way Sameen is straddling his lap.

He feels good beneath her, she has to admit, all those layers of expensive fabric and a solid warmth beneath, the familiar smell of him - it has been a while since she got close to another human being, and even though she wouldn’t admit it out loud under the threat of torture, she doesn’t actually dislikeHarold:

The way he looks like a harmless librarian until he sits down at his desk to make the most secure firewalls in the country crumble, the way he produces staggering amounts of money with a few keystrokes, completely unfazed.

The way he antagonizes people who could hurt him, and _badly_ , prim and unimpressed even when somebody is pointing a gun at him.

At some point when she wasn’t paying attention, Harold’s approval had turned from being completely irrelevant to being something that she _wants_.

Sameen isn’t used to wanting things anymore.

“I like making out and I like shooting people, I’m good either way,” she says.

Sameen raises her eyebrows at him, her hair falling around her face where she looks down at him, her black dress riding up on her thighs.

Harold seems to consider that.

_“Get the hell out there, both of you,_ ” Reese growls in her in-ear, except their number is still here and if they blow their cover, they can’t protect him, and protecting two people while getting into a bar fight with six bodyguards may sound _fun_ , but might just fall onto the bad side of reckless.

Sameen shifts her weight a little and Harold’s hands come up to her hips instantly to keep her balanced. He has a firm grip on her thighs that makes her lean closer, because _yes_ , she likes where this is going.

She half expects him to call it off, to tell her to grab their number on the way out and fight her way out of the door, but instead Harold leans in close and says _“Green”_ against her ear, and that’s pretty much all the agreement she needs.

Sameen leans in and kisses him, her hands roaming over the expensive fabric of his suit, and Harold leans back against the couch so she can let herself fall against him, her body pressed flush against his.

Sameen had intended to go easy on him, maybe some light necking to throw off the security guards, but Harold apparently has other ideas:

He kisses her deeply, with his broad palms still on her hips and burning through her dress, pressing her firmly against him.

She looks up to check if their number is still in position and _oh_ , Harold uses her distraction to put his lips against her throat and to curl his fingertips against her skin where the dress is exposing her back, and she had forgotten about this, too:

How it feels to have somebody thoroughly explore every inch of your body, look for the sweet spots that make your breath stutter.

“Miss Shaw?” Harold asks quietly, his breath tickling her throat: Seeking permission.

“You should really finish that thought, Harold,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear to give him better access, and he huffs a laugh against her skin and kisses a line along her neck.

Reese has gone suspiciously quiet over the line, which means he either logged off or is busy drinking himself into a stupor.

Sameen isn’t _blind_ : His crush on Harold is so obvious it’s probably visible from outer space, and yet the only person who seems oblivious to it is Harold.

Still, Reese has been his most annoying self ever since he got injured, and if he gets to watch her make out with his boy crush now, it’s probably karmic justice.

Daniels is still busy on his couch, so she lets her gaze drop back to Harold, her hands finding their way under his suit jacket and pulling him closer, and Harold finds a spot below her ear that he kisses with a hint of teeth that makes her rock against him reflexively in a full-body shiver, because _Jesus fuck_.

“I should have known you’d be good at this, too,” Sameen says, because it kind of makes her _mad._

Harold chuckles against her lips.

There is a sound on the line like something metallic toppling over.

Sameen eases open the neat knot of his tie and pulls it off, opening the first three buttons of his shirt and running her fingers over the exposed skin.

“I bet you’re really good with your hands,” Sameen says, half because she is really turned on and Harold seems frustratingly in control still, and half because she wants to piss off Reese.

“I think you could coax a really good orgasm out of me that way.”

Sameen expects him to be flustered or to blush and deflect - _“Miss Shaw, this is certainly not a professional way to behave”-_ but instead he curls his fingertips against a sensitive spot in her neck, making her shudder with the promise of it, and says:

“I surely could. Or if you’d prefer, lick one or three out of you.”

Reese makes a noise in the earpiece that sounds like he’s choking.

It’s _delightful_ , like sparring with someone who keeps up with every punch she doles out, and Sameen leans in again to lick into Harold’s mouth.

There is the lazy, pounding rhythm of the bass that swells in the room, the distant sound of voices and glasses clinking, and for a moment there is no imminent danger.

Sameen lets herself feel something else than the strain of physical exercise and the sharp pain of a cut, a gunshot wound.

She catches herself sliding against the thick, expensive fabric of Harold’s trousers, grinding her hips against his leg for a hint of friction.

Her dress is hitched up far enough that it’s just the smooth fabric of her underwear against the expensive tweed, and _fuck_ , she’d really like to come right now.

Sameen isn’t sure for a moment if she said that out loud - not likely, because Reese would have burst an aneurysm already -, because Harold says:

“Whatever you need, Sameen,” like he’s _fucking serious,_ like he’d get her a private jet or a shiny new car or a grenade launcher, and it’s only then that it clicks:

Reese’s stupidly huge apartment, the expensive suits, the goddamn tailoring, ties and cufflinks - it’s not because Reese asked for it at some point. Hell, John would probably keep working for Harold if he didn’t get paid _at all,_ so it must have been Harold who came up with it, who gave him all of these things.

And yes, maybe she doesn’t have a good instinct for messy, complicated things like feelings, but she should have seen that one coming.

“Oh god, you _like me_ ,” she groans, and Harold gives her a puzzled look as if that should have been _obvious_.

She has a firm grip on his shoulders, staring right into his absurdly blue eyes, and something in his gaze makes her pause.

“I was under the impression that I had made the terms of your employment very clear,” Harold says, softly, gaze flicking behind her to make sure that their number is still busy going at it and didn’t slip out of the back entrance.

“Allow me to clarify: There is no way to buy loyalty or devotion, which I’m acutely aware of, and yet I ask both of these things from you and Mr. Reese. You risk your lives on a daily basis, based on information that I provide. I know that there is no way to repay that with money alone, so I will give you whatever lies in my means to provide.”

Sameen raises an eyebrow at him. Well, she certainly didn’t manage to get him all hot and bothered, judging by the way he is still making a startling amount of eloquent sense.

“Within certain reasonable boundaries,” Harold adds, making a face, as if he half-expects her to ask for the Holy Grail. Or probably a unicorn.

She has to fight down the smile that is threatening to sneak onto her face.

“I thought this was just a job,” she says, running her hand along his cheek and throat in a gesture that is just part of the cover, just a smokescreen so they can stay close to their number.

It’s not about affection, it’s not about _caring_ at all. Sameen doesn’t even like people, so she sure as hell won’t start caring.

“It’s not, Sameen,” Harold says, like he can listen in to the part of the conversation that she’s having inside of her own head as well. “If there is something that you need--“

Sameen throws a glance at their number - nope, still busy, and then thinks, well, s _crew this_.

She grabs Harold’s hand and puts it between her legs, and apparently he’s good at nonverbal communication, too, because he doesn’t miss a beat:

He slides her panties out of the way with his thumb while his index and middle finger draw lazy circles around her clit.

“This doesn’t _mean_ anything,” Sameen says, more to herself than to him.

She bites down on her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

“I understand,” Harold says, clever fingers and brilliant mind and playing fucking chess with the entire world, and she didn’t ask for this, she didn’t ask for somebody to _understand_ her when half of the time she doesn’t even understand herself.

“Put your weight on your knees,” Harold says against her ear, and she does that, glad that she has something to do with her body, something else to concentrate on.

“I sometimes take strangers home with me for a night or two, I don’t -- it’s just sex, I don’t really care about the feelings part,” she blurts, horrified at herself.

In her defense, Harold is no amateur at what he’s doing with his hand between her legs, so it’s probably just her brain short-circuiting or something.

“There is an odd obsession with the physical in regards to human relationships, I don’t see why at all,” Harold says, like they are discussing some kind of abstract philosophical concept.

He curls his thumb against the hood of her clit, moving down all the way between her folds and up again, and Sameen clenches her teeth to bite down a gasp.

“Did you just agree with me somewhere in that sentence?” She manages, her hips thrusting up against him on their own accord.

He _chuckles_ , and she can feel the rumbling of it in his chest. It’s a strange sound coming from him, so perpetually clear-headed and serious.

Maybe they are all wearing their very own masks all the time.

“Maybe we have more things in common than we initially thought, Miss Shaw,” Harold says, and either he’s deciding that he can show a little more humanity given the way she is basically grinding against him, wet and panting and finding it hard to think straight, or she is just becoming better at reading him: He’s teasing her, she realizes.

“What a terrifying thought,” Sameen says, her lips twitching.

There’s the slow pressure of his thumb against her in response, like a reward.

She lets her forehead rest against Harold’s shoulder, giving him room to work where she is raising her hips.

“Daniels,” Sameen says, shuddering when Harold crooks his fingers and her hips jerk forward on their own accord.

“I can see him quite well, I’ll keep an eye on the situation,” Harold says, all business, as if he wasn’t currently fingering the woman perched on his lap.

“Fine, just -- _fuck._ Make sure he doesn’t leave,” Sameen says, her grip on his shoulders probably painful by now, her fingers clenched into tweed, shuddering all over.

He _is_ really good with his hands, and there is a moment when she feels like she either has to get off or her brain will melt with it.

“Come _on_ ,” Sameen whines, and apparently those are the magic words, because suddenly there is pressure on just the right spot, Harold’s thumb stroking her clit while he slides two fingers inside her, and she bucks against him and curses under her breath while a glorious orgasm is thrumming through her body all the way to her toes.

“It’s fine, Daniels is still in place, it’s all under control,” Harold says quietly, when she tries to sit up.

He brushes her hair away from her face with his free hand in a way that is oddly tender, like he wants her to relax against him, wants her to _have this_ , and even stranger:

This is something that she can accept, something physical that she understands, like sign language instead of spoken words.

He starts to move his hand away except Sameen grabs his wrist and keeps him there, her face pressed against his shoulder, panting against the thick wool of his suit. 

Harold makes a content humming sound and keeps touching her, light pressure on her sensitive clit, just at the knife’s edge between pleasure and pain.

Sameen rocks against him until she feels a sweet, hot burn between her legs, and maybe she’s showing too much, breaking herself wide open with her own want, but right now she just doesn’t care about any of it:

The number, the dull throbbing bass around them, Reese on the line, Cole and Northern Lights and all of those _secrets_.

She has seen the way Harold looks at Reese, like he is torn between eternal gratitude and wanting to buy a tropical island for the man to retire to, to _keep him safe_.

And now, this moment:

He gives her this without wanting anything for himself, fills up her bank account like money has no meaning to him, and in a a startled, horrified second Sameen realizes that she could ask this man for anything and he would probably give it to her because he doesn’t know how to say it any other way.

Hell, he has been screaming it at John at the top of his lungs for years and Reese hadn’t _noticed._

Harold crooks his finger a little, and _shit_ , she feels sparks running through her whole body again.

After the last of the aftershocks have subsided, Sameen sits up, trying to get a look at his face.

Harold has tugged his pocket square out of his jacket and his casually wiping his hand - _Christ, just knowing what these hands are capable of will be some fantasy fodder for her in the future_ -, but he looks the same, innocent expression firmly in place, and it makes her _fond_ of him, somehow:

That he knows what she will accept from him, and doesn’t try to give her anything else.

“I think I have identified the threat,” Harold says casually, and when she turns around, she can see what he means: Miss Slinky Dress apparently has more than just lipstick in her purse, if the roofie she is just slipping into their number’s drink is any indication.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Sameen says, to go slap the drink out of Daniels’ hand and probably get into a fight with some of the apparently fake security guards who have started to close in on them.

“Certainly,” Harold says, buttoning his shirt and rearranging his tie where she has messed it up.

“I know you’re still there,” Sameen says when she makes her way across the room, almost inaudible over the thrumming of the music, but she knows that Reese is listening attentively. “Do me a favor? Stop being a coward and just ask him for what you want.”

If John has an answer to that, she doesn’t hear it over the sound of kicking the asses of six bulky guys twice her size.

 

\--

 

“Excellent work, Sameen,” Harold says when they walk out of the door and into the empty street.

He makes an attempt to help her into her jacket before she slaps his hand away, glaring.

Harold looks unbothered.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” He asks, winding a scarf around his neck.

God _fucking_ dammit.

“You’re really going to do this, aren’t you?” Sameen groans.

Harold raises an eyebrow at her.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite know what you’re talking about.”

The adrenaline is still making her heart do jumping jacks in her chest.

“You’re simply going to take this in stride, like you didn’t just get me off in some kind of whacky sex club,” Sameen snaps.

Harold gives her a blank stare. _Oh god, what has she done to deserve this._

She pulls her own earpiece out and switches it off and then snag’s Harold’s away from him, tucking the little devices into her breast pocket.

“This probably didn’t even _do_ anything for you, but you still went through with it--“

“The experience wasn’t exactly unpleasant, I can assure you,” Harold says in that flat tone that probably passes for smugness with him.

Sameen resists the temptation to break his nose, and keeps talking instead.

“Why the hell would you do that, but refuse to take something you _actually want?_ Like, I don’t know, that tall, brooding ex-spy who lives in your library and _loves you_?”

Harold’s mouth opens, but no words come out. His hand goes up to his ear reflexively before he remembers that she took the earpiece out earlier.

“Miss Shaw,” he starts, “I can assure you that you’re reading the situation completely wrong. Mr. Reese isn’t - his interest isn’t only directed quite obviously at the female population, he’s also most certainly not infatuated with me in any way.”

“I didn’t say Reese is gay, Harold. I said that he loves you, which, if I have gotten the message by now? Must be really obvious all around. And I’ve formed the theory that he wants to jump your bones mostly on the evidence of how every single time you put your hands on him, he’s about to roll onto his back and let you pat his belly.”

Sameen realizes that she’s never actually seen Harold flinch before. It’s not primness, she’s sure - he’s had his hand between her legs twenty minutes ago, he’s probably not that easy to rattle. It seems more like Harold _actually didn’t realize_.

_These two genuinely deserve each other_ , she thinks.

“You told me that you like to reward devotion, and that you will give whatever lies in your means to provide,” Sameen says. “So how about you do the same for Reese?”

“I didn’t -- _I can’t believe I didn’t know_ ,” Harold says, rubbing his temple as if his brain is busy rewinding the last few years, trying to pick up the clues.

“For a successful genius billionaire vigilante, you’re a real mess,” Sameen says, putting up her collar against the wind and handing him back his earpiece.

On a whim, she leans in and brushes a kiss against his cheek.

“Thanks for the orgasm, Harold,” she says, and turns on her heel.

“I would just like to make it very clear that weapons of mass destruction would not be considered a reasonable demand and that I’m not buying you any,” Harold calls after her, as if he just dimly remembered what he had said to her earlier in the club, and Sameen grins and keeps walking into the night.

 

\--

 

**PART II: HAROLD**

 

The lights are still on in the room above when Harold climbs the stairs.

Bear is waiting for him the moment he sets foot into the library, wagging his tail enthusiastically, and Harold leans down to stroke his soft fur.

“Mr. Reese?”

John sits in a chair by the desk. He doesn’t flinch - he probably knew Harold was coming just from the sound of the metal gate outside screeching or Harold’s footsteps echoing through the foyer.

He is reassembling some kind of rifle that he has stripped down to a handful of small parts, hands working steadily. There’s a half-empty Scotch glass still on the desk, perilously close to a computer.

Harold presses his lips together and ignores the temptation to remove it.

“I figured you’d go home. You had a pretty long night,” John says.

There’s no trace of malice in his voice, he just sounds tired.

Sameen has replaced the plaster splint with an orthopedic brace by now.

“While I would deeply enjoy drilling a screw into your shin, I’m pretty sure this will suffice”, she had said, patting John’s leg condescendingly, but then John had said “thank you” in such an earnest tone that she had to look away, busying herself with cleaning up her medical supplies.

It’s the kind of brace that lets John put weight on his injured leg, and while Harold suspects that he might not use the crutches leaning against the couch as often as he probably should, it’s good to see John on his feet and moving around, no longer restricted to the bed in the back room, sleeping off his pain meds.

“I keep thinking about a particular problem I’ve been considering,” Harold says, sitting down in his chair and scrubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t think I’ll sleep well until I have found a solution.”

“Oh?” John says, not looking up from where he is cleaning some small, round part of the sniper rifle.

Harold has no idea where that would even go, and he lets himself consider the puzzle of jumbled pieces for a moment before clearing his throat.

“Miss Shaw said something odd to me tonight --,” Harold says, and John huffs a bitter laugh.

“She certainly said a lot of things, that’s for sure.”

“John, there is something I’d like to discuss with you, and it would be very kind of you to put away that piece of artillery for the duration of that talk,” Harold says, a little more sharply than he’d intended.

John lets the piece he’s been holding slot back into place with a click, wipes his hands on an old dishtowel and leans back in his chair, chin raised defiantly.

“Look, Harold, I get it. It’s none of my business what you do with your free time, or what Shaw does with hers, for that matter, so you really don’t have to give me the talk about how this won’t be an issue.”

Harold stares at him in utter confusion.

“Mr. Reese, do you think I’m -- I’m not _attracted_ to Miss Shaw, good lord. I mean--,” he waves around a hand at John’s expression, “She’s an attractive woman, I wasn’t disputing that, but this is not a romantic relationship --“

_“You had sex at a swinger club, Harold_ ,” John says through clenched teeth, as if Harold is being utterly dense on purpose.

Apparently John misreads Harold’s look of bewilderment, because he quickly adds “I didn’t listen to all of it, I just -- Shaw seemed to have the situation covered, so I tuned out for a bit. I did get the general idea, though. You were pretty clear when you offered to go down on her, actually.”

Harold can feel the headache building behind his temples and fights the urge to put his head into his hands.

“Do you know why I keep replacing your suits, John?” Harold asks.

John looks _lost_ , a haunted, tired expression around his eyes, and suddenly Harold feels very confident about Sameen’s thesis:

The evidence seems to be piling up.

John is _jealous._

“Because I keep getting bullet holes in them?” John asks, a faint glimmer of his usual humor.

“Because you enjoy wearing them,” Harold says.

He gestures to the computer equipment, the dark monitor.

“I wasn’t sure, at first - you were difficult enough when it came to the fitting, actually -, but when I see you on surveillance tapes, I can tell that you like wearing them. I got you an apartment because I wanted you to have a _home_ , a familiar place to come back to after a long day. John, I’m not proficient at expressing emotions, but with you I found ways to convey my gratitude and -- my affection.”

John looks completely dumbfounded, so Harold just keeps going. 

“With Sameen I have been struggling to figure out how to give her something that she would want to accept from me, I certainly can’t get close to her with a measuring tape without suffering serious damage, as you will probably concede. And as it happened, it was a physical need instead of an emotional one that she was asking me for, one that was in my means to provide. The thing is that - she didn’t realize that she could ask to have things, that she was _allowed_ to, and she implied that you--“

Harold’s voice gives out on him. He swallows, unclenches his hands where he unconsciously balled them into fists. _Christ, what is he doing._

John looks like he is going to be sick.

“Please tell me if there is something that you want from me, John,” Harold says, and John flinches at the words.

“What I want I’m not gonna get,” John says hoarsely, hiding his mouth behind his hand as if he’s afraid of giving something away.

Harold gets up from his chair and walks around the table, John’s watchful eyes following him.

He takes John’s hand in his and raises it up to his mouth, carefully kissing each knuckle in turn, and John exhales, _one, two, three, four seconds,_ the space of too many heartbeats.

“You can have whatever you want from me, John. Anything. _Anything you --_ “

Harold is interrupted by the way John grabs his tie and pulls him down against him, Harold’s hands clasping his shoulders for support.

John kisses him, hands clutching at the fabric of Harold’s vest.

John kisses like he is desperately afraid that he might _wake up any second_ , as if he is constantly expecting to take that last step on the staircase that isn’t there, to jerk awake in his own bed.

Harold pulls back, John breathing hard against him, leaning against Harold’s chest and breathing him in.

_“Harold,_ ” John says, helplessly, tugging half-heartedly at his vest as if he can’t remember how buttons work.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Harold asks, his hands on John’s cheeks, his shoulders, and John leans back until he can look at him, eyes startled and open wide.

“I didn’t think you’d _want_ me,” John says, and that is the last straw:

Harold reaches behind him to grab a pillow from the couch and lets it fall to the floor, lowering himself down to his knees, and John is too shell-shocked to do anything but stare at him.

Harold deftly unbuttons John’s pants and undoes the zipper, and John makes a soft, pleading noise that edges Harold on even more:

He leans down to put his mouth on John’s cock through the fabric of his boxers, and John’s hips jolt before he can control himself.

John is growing hard just from kissing Harold, he realizes, from the feeling of his hands on him, and the thought is intoxicating.

Harold pulls out John’s erection, one hand gripping the base firmly while he sucks the head into his mouth.

John has apparently given up on trying to keep quiet, because he moans every time Harold hits a sensitive spot, with every wicked twist of his tongue around the glans.

“Please, Harold, I’m--“ John says, and then he comes with a groan into Harold’s mouth, sinking back against the chair completely boneless, his whole body shivering with it.

Harold wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“How is your leg?” He asks, but John is just leaning back all heavy-lidded and sated, tugging at the fabric of Harold’s jacket to get him closer again.

“Do you think you can make it to the back room?” Harold asks, and John sighs dreamily and lets Harold help him up, one arm slung over Harold’s shoulder.

“This isn’t - we’ll do this _again_ , won’t we?” John asks, sounding positively drugged.

Harold wonders if he has been mixing painkillers with his Scotch, but opts to let the matter rest.

John sinks down on the edge of the bed that they keep in the backroom, maneuvers the leg with the brace onto the mattress and then lies down flat on his back, patting the spot next to him.

“I suppose I owe Miss Shaw some kind of extremely dangerous weapon,” Harold says, taking off his jacket and vest and folding them neatly over the back of a chair.

He undoes his tie and takes off his shoes before climbing into bed next to John.

If John was satiated and loopy just moments ago, now he _wants_ things:

He wants to run his hands over Harold’s shirt and undo the buttons until he gets to touch the naked skin of his belly, his chest. He wants to kiss and taste and lick until Harold is moving restlessly against him, John’s muscular thigh between his legs, Harold rubbing himself up against him before John makes short work of the buttons on Harold’s pants and slips his hand inside.

It feels marvelous, John’s grip around his erection, the soft heat of John’s mouth under Harold’s, their tongues sliding against each other.

Harold can’t manage too much thrusting with his bad hip, but John is compensating by working him in irresistible, firm strokes, coaxing his orgasm out of him, the slide of John’s thumb against the underside of his cock taking him over the edge until he’s spilling messily between them.

John leans in to kiss Harold’s forehead, looking absurdly pleased with himself.

“That was quite remarkable, John,” Harold croaks, because John deserves to hear it, and John makes a satisfied noise before burying his face against Harold’s neck, arms slung tightly around him, and instantly drifting off to sleep.

“I’ve always wanted you, from the very beginning,” Harold says, lips brushing John’s temple, but John is already asleep.

It doesn’t matter. Harold will say it again, many more times.

 

\--

 

The first thing Harold sees is a paper bag.

He blinks blearily and fishes for his glasses on the nightstand.

There are two large paper cups, the orders written in marker on the side, one coffee, one green Sencha tea.

Harold recognizes the logo: It’s one of his favorite places, a small café a few blocks south.

There’s a post-it stuck to the bag, and Harold leans closer to inspect it.

It just reads:

 

_You’re welcome, Harold. - S._

Harold chuckles and lets himself sink back against the sheets.

Next to him, John shifts until he is pressed up against Harold, kissing the line of his shoulder, one hand stroking lazy circles on his stomach.

“Morning,” John says, smiling against his skin.

“Good morning, John,” Harold says, curling closer, deciding on a whim that breakfast can wait for a while.

 

\-- fin


End file.
